Free Eight Murders In the Suburbs by Roy Vickers Page B

came—unrecognised as such—at breakfast on the first Tuesday in March, which was an extremely windy day. Even the well set windows of the Kensington flat rattled now and then.
    Marion, like any other woman who dresses constructively, did not like windy days.
    As Peter finished his coffee, he put the coffee spoon on the plate that contained the débris of his toast and marmalade. Marion had first noticed that little trick on their honeymoon—which meant that she had noticed it at about a thousand breakfasts.
    â€œPeter! Why do you always put your coffee spoon on your plate like that?”
    â€œI dunno, dear. I suppose I do it to make sure it isn’t mistaken for a clean spoon.”
    â€œI think you ought to see a psychiatrist. I mean it, old boy. There are so many little things like that. The bath taps, for instance—the stoppers of the whisky bottles—all that ritual when you park the car. I have sung my little song about it—quite often, frankly—but I suppose you’ve forgotten. Forgetting is one of the symptoms.”
    â€œSymptoms of what?”
    â€œI can’t remember the name for it. Something that means excessive anxiety about trifles—when it wouldn’t matter if they went wrong. But they never do go wrong. The light always has been turned off. The stoppers are always airtight. The taps never drip. The thing is growing on you, Peter.”
    â€œThere isn’t a ‘thing’ to grow. Part of it is habit. But the main idea is deliberate. There’s a system in it. I started it as a result of something that happened when I was in the Navy—”
    â€œDarling, you really have told me how the signalling officer’s braces fused something and sank—or was it burned?—the corvette. But that’s a long time ago. And if you took another corvette and some more braces, you couldn’t make it happen again. It was a freak accident. And, I mean, if you’re like this at thirty-four, what will you be like at fifty?”
    â€œMy system has paid off in business—”
    â€œPeople are beginning to notice, and that’s not very nice for me. People laugh at people who are fussy. Why, you can’t even help me into an evening cloak without feeling the hem, to make sure my heel won’t catch in it.”
    â€œI didn’t know you had noticed. I oughtn’t to let it touch—us. I’m sorry, Marion.”
    â€œPeter! I didn’t altogether mean to say that—it was beastly of me!” She would have burst into tears of contrition, but this was unnecessary because, at this period, he was a good tempered man who readily forgave almost anybody for almost anything.
    â€œThe charge of fussiness stands,” he said, while he was kissing her. “I promise I’ll overhaul the system right away.”
    â€œYou’ll never remember, darling, but it’s sweet of you to want to.”
    Outside the flat, he was about to shake the door, to make sure that the Yale lock was in order, when he cut his hand away. Salute to Marion! Three years of married life and still monstrously attractive at breakfast time! Wriggling a little as he made sure that he had not forgotten his latchkey, his note case and his fountain pen, he entered the lift.
    If a prowling cracksman—he reflected on the way down—were to test the door and find it insecurely fastened, he would enter the flat, sandbag Marion, gag her clumsily and perhaps suffocate her. It wouldn’t take a minute to get back into the lift and make sure the door was locked.
    In a couple of seconds he had decided against going back. He had promised to overhaul the system. A pity, because it was a good system. Admittedly, the risk of disaster in any given case was minute. But why take even a minute risk of disaster when you need not? Still, in marriage, each side has to make concessions of principle. As he stepped into the street he removed his hat and